Hallelujah
by Bellsie805
Summary: She had images seared into her brain from different times in her life. This image, she knew, would join those ranks of battle- and time-tested memories.
1. Power is his Trump Card

**Author's Note: **Don't own them, so don't sue. Leonard Cohen, I believe, owns _Hallelujah_.

_I heard there was a secret chord _

_That David played and it pleased the Lord _

_But you don't really care for music, do you? _

His dexterous hands skipped along the piano keys. A, D, E flat, B. _Smooth, keep it smooth_. Sharp staccatos, just like you. Hold the note. Trill key C. Eight sixteenth notes, make them fast, but keep the fluidity of they melody. Hit the grace note…

His hands unconsciously stopped after the simple piano skill. He hit the G quickly and then the F, but he stopped when his conscious mind overtook the stupor state he had been in.

_A grace note_.

Cameron was a grace note. She was beautiful and harder than she looked. She was a G to an F. She puzzled him, and he liked puzzles.

But he would never tell her that. After years of pining miserably for Stacy, he did not want to be destroyed by a woman again. Power was his trump card and sarcasm was the dominating suit.

He played the piano because, for several minutes during his musical soliloquy, he could drift off into the oblivion of the lovely music. There were no thoughts about Stacy and dead patients that haunted him in the quiet moments during the day. There was no bickering between Foreman and Chase. There were no worries about having a relationship with an underling. There were the notes on the piano and there were the instructions written in the second language of notes that only the experienced understood; this comforted him more than his Vicodin ever could. Music was the universal language and he wondered if Cameron understood it.

Stacy had not and Wilson knew only of the great rockers of the '60s and '70s. The oncologist and he could go back and forth quoting lyrics and making references to completely irrelevant musicians of the decade. But Wilson was not a fan of Beethoven, Bach, or Brahms. House was on his own in his classical piano tastes.

He played jazz, but preferred to listen to it rather than actually play it. Jazz had layers and he liked to pick those layers apart like he did to a patient. No one liked to listen with him, though, for he was a listener who would close his eyes and kill the first person who interrupted him.

He took a swig from the amber colored drink sitting on top the books that were scattered on the closed baby grand's lid. He stuck out his tongue to touch the ice as he drank and then put the glass again. His hands fell back to the silky ivory keys and commenced to play again.

Cameron stood outside his door listening to the heartbreaking piano that played on inside. She heard the sharpness of his fingers hitting the keys and then the tinkling when she imagined his fingers danced gracefully atop the pieces of wood. The tears formed in her eyes as she put her back to the door and started to slide down to sit on the pavement. She didn't understand music—the songs were pretty, but, being pretty like she was, she hated the adjective and the characteristic. Pretty was stupid and ridiculous and applied to Barbie dolls that had no brains. She wanted to be called smart and she wanted to be respected. And she wanted to be loved.

She knew it was the universal thing every girl wanted when she grew up. To be loved by another human being, to be cuddled, to be held…oh, yes, it was every girl's dream. Cameron was no exception. There had been a marriage because she was a nice person. She had a friend in high school—ambitious, talented, and smart—who was the opposite of Cameron. She had a spirit that evolved out of distrust for society. She knew Cameron would hurt herself one day because she was _too_ nice. Yes, her friend could come up with the wittiest remarks and play with all the boys. She died when they were seventeen in a car accident coming home from a party. Cameron never forgot as she watched her friend die. Certain images are seared into people's mind. There was her friend dying, her husband doing the same, and there was House at the Monster Truck rally. Images floated in her brain like the notes that permeated the pages of the music House was performing.

The tears streamed down her cheek and she tried not to heave her heavy breath into the night air. House didn't need to hear her crying pitifully at his door. The piano had been stopped for several dozen seconds now, and she was quite worried that he had stopped. These private concerts that unknowingly gave her every night kept her sane. Yes, he had asked her back, and, yes they had gone to dinner. And then he wasn't at work for the next few days. On the second day, she came over to his house to see if he was okay. She heard the piano and knew she couldn't interrupt him. She stayed and listened and came back every night, even after he returned to work.

The sound of the piano resonated dimly through the wooden door. A slight smile formed on her lips as she hummed along. She was so content, even if the tears belied that point, that she did not notice when the piano stopped again, and the door behind her opened, sending her spilling into House's living room.


	2. Sinners and Saints, Winners and Losers

**Author's Note**: I like this story, which means I will continue. Those years of piano finally paid off. Verity Kindle, thank you for the critique. I didn't like underlings either, but couldn't think of a term to replace it. "Employees" sound much better. Thanks everyone for the reviews!

_Well it goes like this: _

_The fourth, the fifth, the minor fall and the major lift _

_The baffled king composing Hallelujahs_

_Hallelujah…Hallelujah…Hallelujah…Hallelujah... _

House looked down at the grace note. He had stopped playing when he heard a soft whimpering at his door. He thought it was a lost cat or something that needed shelter for the night. He wouldn't take it in, of course, but perhaps he'd call the SPCA to come down and take it away in the morning.

Instead, when he cracked the door open, a seemingly distraught Allison Cameron sprawled back onto his living room floor.

"What in God's name are you doing!" He exclaimed.

"Nothing, I swear, I was just…"

"Stalking me? Obsessing? Sitting outside my door hoping that some greater deity would inform me of your presence…Oh, wait, you're an atheist. Let me rephrase. Were you sitting outside my door hoping that my ESP would pick up on your obvious desire to get in my house and then my pants?"

He knew he would sting her with the comments, but there were facades he had to maintain in life, and the sharp edge was one of them. His sarcasm was an edifice of heartbreak.

She stood up rather hurriedly and steeled herself. He saw the skin around her eyes barely crinkle as she chuckled.

"You…are…paranoid," she said between laughs.

He looked at her. She was…laughing? At him!

"Get out of my house."

She looked at him. This was not the Allison Cameron he dealt with every day in the hospital.

"How many drinks have you had?"

"None."

"Liar."

"That's what you think."

"Everyone lies."

"You're wrong."

"I'm always right."

"Not about that."

"Of course I am. You have no idea what you're talking about."

"Yes, I do."

"Another lie."

"House, I watched my best friend and then my husband die in the space of five years. _You _don't know what you're talking about."

The line had been crossed and she had made a mistake. He was angry and came up to her.

"My very serious girlfriend left me for my physical therapist after my…leg…My mother and father died when I was ten and I was brought up by wolves. Happy now?"

"No."

"I'd forcibly throw you out, but I can't. You're a stupid, stupid girl, Cameron."

"I know."

"You're going to get hurt."

"I like pain."

"You like pain? The kind that stabs you in the heart and twists itself over and over again, lacerating your arteries? You like the pain of forgotten birthdays and missed anniversaries? You don't. Another lie. Three, four, now?"

He was startled as she put her hand on his chest, letting her fingers spread equally on the picture of The Who.

"I could push you over," she whispers.

He didn't respond.

"I could. I might. You said you wouldn't crush me. I appreciate that, so I won't crush you. I could make _you_ look stupid now. I knew my husband was dying, but I married him anyway. Stupidity, House, takes many forms."

He looked at the hand on his shirt.

"If I did that to you, you'd be screaming sexual harassment. Well, not you, since you have this unfound fascination for me, but Cuddy if she saw it. Stupidity, dear Dr. Cameron, may seem to you to be under many aliases, but it is what it is. Some people just like to…sugarcoat it to make it more…acceptable. Niceness, for example. A horrible trait, and a good excuse for stupidity."

"Get off your high horse, House. You aren't a saint. Don't act like one."

"None of us are saints. We're all sinners and it's the sinners that win and the saints that lose. Face it, Cameron, being nice gets you nowhere."

"Yes, it does. At least when I go to bed at night I can say I did the right thing. How about you?"

"My heart is black and I have no conscience."

He watched her as she heaved a large sigh.

"Leave now, Cameron."

She turned to leave, looking at his face wondering what she could do to make those deep valleys go away. What tears cut through the canyons, making them so deep? She didn't want to leave and with every step she took, she thought of an excuse she can tell him to let her stay. She landed upon the perfect reason as she hit her seventh step. She spun on her heel to face the man who had just told her to leave on seconds earlier.

"I have soft jazz in my car and can accompany you on the piano."

She watched as his eyebrows arches and waited two half notes for his response.

"I hate jazz."

"A lie, but a good one."

She turned and walked out the door.


	3. Truth, Justice, and the American Way

**Author's Note:** My unhealthy obsession with _House_ is making me put aside several biology related things that I actually need to do sometime this weekend. But it doesn't matter. This is much more fun. I'm going to continue this, but I'm not sure where I'm going with it—especially the ending.

_Well your faith was strong but you needed proof _

_You saw her bathing on the roof _

_Her beauty and the moonlight over threw you _

She went down to the street and opened her car. She rummaged around in the front seat hoping that her sister had accidentally dropped the jazz CD she had been so engrossed in when Cameron drove her back to the airport. It hadn't happened. She cursed softly. House's principle was right: she was lying.

Not about everything. She wasn't drunk, for sure. She thrived in painful atmospheres for reasons beyond her, but she loved to comfort people and take on their pain. House was her pet project in a sense.

She heard the door open somewhere behind her.

"Get inside. You're fifth lie was your worst," House chimed from the open door.

She brought her head up too quickly. She had been startled and the dark scared her, so jumpiness was not unusual for her. But she leapt up and smacked her head—hard—on the doorframe.

"_Shit!_" She yelped.

"Was the profanity necessary? Get your CD and let's go," House's unsympathetic voice echoed again.

Cameron grabbed the first two CDs she saw, Dylan's _Blood on the Tracks _and a mix of songs she had recently downloaded, and made her way back to the door. She held one hand firmly on her head and the CDs in the other. She ambled back to the door where House was standing and he stood aside to let her pass. As she did, she noticed he leaned over slightly to look at her head.

"Don't move."

The command was relatively quiet and free of sarcasm considering it was House. He slammed the door shut behind them and pulled her hand off her head. She grimaced as his hands felt her scalp.

"Sit down."

She moved to the couch and sat down, putting her CDs on his coffee table. House flicked on a light and walked back over to where she was sitting. She sat straight up as he stood over and looked at her head again.

"You're bleeding."

"Bleeding? I didn't feel any blood."

"Look at your hand, unless, along with having stupidity as a virtue, obliviousness is another."

She looked at her hand and noticed the reddish sheen that it had taken.

"Holy shit. I didn't realize I slammed my head that hard."

"Foul mouths are not attractive on a lady. And, looking at the selection of CDs you brought, _Blood on the Tracks_ seems very appropriate."

"How badly is it bleeding?"

"Purely superficial, which isn't surprising. I'll get a towel and some water. You'll hold it on your head and stay here until you're well enough to go. I don't need the liability."

He limped off into what appeared to the kitchen as she swept her eyes around the room.

"Oh, you can relax. Being so straight-postured reminds me of a nun. I don't think you're aiming for that impression."

He called from the kitchen and she instantly relaxed.

"Ah, I knew it. Jump up and down," he commanded as he walked back into the room carrying a wet towel.

"Why?"

"I thought you were going to be my obedient lapdog. Damnit, I was looking forward to it, too. Here's the towel."

He thrust the towel in her general direction and sat down in the chair next to the couch, appraising the women in front of him. She dabbed the top of her head at first, cleaning up the dried blood. She let it lay on top of her head and decided to respond to House's lapdog comment.

"Lapdog? I'm no one's lapdog, thank you very much."

"But you want to be mine."

"I respect you. I don't want to screw you."

"Don't ever let them give you a lie-detector test. You'd fail. Miserably."

"And you'd do much better?"

"I like to fashion myself as the teller of truths, detector of deceptions, and righter of wrongs. Which superhero is that? Superman? Truth, justice, and the American Way."

He punched the air with faked enthusiasm.

"Shut up."

"Oh, sorry. I thought my voice made you…" he considered his words with a smirk, "…happy."

She knew she wouldn't be able to match his cynical, sarcastic remarks. He thought she was _nice_. Well, then she would be nice.

"I like you, House, in spit of all your…negativity. Your voice makes me happy and I love when you play the piano and that's why I come to listen to you play. _You_ for some stupid reason make me happy. Or make me think I'm happy…"

"Lie, lie, lie, _lie_."

"I brought music; let's listen."

"It's Bob Dylan."

"Problem?"

"It's _Bob Dylan_…"

"You have got to be kidding me. You have a problem with Bob Dylan?"

"Just put the damn thing in, since you lied about the jazz."

She sighed and handed him the CD. He got up and limped with his cane to the Bose CD player and popped in the Dylan classic. _Tangled up in Blue_ started playing first. Dylan's folksy voice fluttered through the quiet room.

For those several minutes when it was only Dylan, Cameron, and House in the room. For the brief second between songs, it was only Cameron and House. In that small second, Cameron stood up and moved over to where House was sitting, eyes closed, on the chair. She lowered herself down to sit on his good leg. His eyes flew open. She leaned her head on his shoulder as _A Simple Twist of Fate_, probably Cameron's favorite Dylan song, started to play. House did not object and let his hand fall on her back. She curled into the crook of his neck and her eyes closed as well. She inhaled the stale smell of old cologne and shaving cream. He inhaled the fresh scent of Ralph Lauren shampoo and Chanel perfume.

The odd trio kept each other company in the dark of the night.


	4. Heaven, Hell, and Seven Lies

_She tied you to her kitchen chair _

_She broke your throne and she cut your hair _

_And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah _

House stirred when the old grandfather clock in his living room struck twice. The remembrance of only a few hours ago came screaming back. His eyes flashed open and he realized that Cameron wasn't there. He noticed that she left the towel folded up carefully on his table. He reached down and touched it gently. How long ago had she left?

His question was answered when the start of an engine sounded outside. He stood up quickly—_too_ quickly—and the pain in his leg was too much and too abrupt. His recovery was not to be and he fell to the floor, twisting his bad leg underneath him as he did so.

He moaned loudly and touched his leg gently. Frustrated, he flung his cane about wildly, throwing it across the room. It smacked the wall and he was glad he didn't live in a condo. He sighed and leaned his back against the chair. He was drowning in his self-pity and he was defiant—_he was not moving from the floor_.

There would be too much time and effort wasted in trying to get up off his ass and back into some semblance of a man. Shambles and scattered pieces were what his body was and he gave up even on the Vicodin. If he died now, who would care? Cameron was gone—probably not to come back and he didn't need the awkward moments at the hospital anyway. Wilson would mourn for a few days—their odd little friendship personified the words "opposites attract". Well, considering that he was the bitterest, most bastardly man in the state of New Jersey, he was a lot of people's opposite, so the heading did not really apply to just Wilson. Cuddy would also mourn for his brilliance and maybe their sharp retorts and verbal tangles, but not for long. Foreman and Chase would miss him perhaps, but did it matter anymore?

Stacy was the one that once counted, but it didn't matter to him anymore. She was as dead to him as he hoped to be in a few hours. If only the Vicodin was nearer. He'd take as many as he could shove down his throat and end his stupid life. It just wasn't worth it anymore. He closed his eyes and hoped to die.

Cameron, with tears in her eyes, started her car. She had to leave. He'd wake up in the morning and throw her out without even thinking. She leaned her head on the steering wheel and thought for a few minutes. She needed to leave now.

_Get away from here as fast as you can. Save yourself_.

The voices inside her head grew louder. But her heart was throwing a tantrum.

_You leave now and you lose everything!_

She didn't know what to do when logic and reason were being replaced by love and passion. Go back inside and sit with him all night and take what you can. Leave in the morning and pretend nothing happen. Leave now and take your dignity with you.

She made the decision when she gave her logic a satisfying reason to go back inside.

She was not leaving without Dylan in the car.

When she opened the door that she had not locked when she left, she saw House's cane and a dented wall. She gasped and hurried over to the chair where she had left him. She found him slumped against the armchair and gasped again. He was pallid looking and his eyes were closed.

"House!" She exclaimed.

"Heaven? Please tell me I've made it there?"

"You think you're dead?"

"Cameron! Hell it must be then!"

But the comment lacked the sting it normally carried with it, for House's voice was oddly emotionless.

"Oh, House!"

House, she knew didn't want the sympathy, but he was delusional. Seeing him sitting on the floor, prone and prostrate was an image that would be seared into her mind, much like those memories of her husband and best friend dying were.

"Not this time. Not with me around."

The mantra was uttered and she slung her arm underneath his shoulders. House's face bespoke his surprise.

"What the hell are you doing?"

"You're going to bed."

"You can't lift me."

"Watch me."

"Fine, fine, I'll get up. I can hobble better than you can carry me."

House grasped the edge of the cushion and managed, with an infinite amount of strength Cameron was figuring that he was drawing from his orneriness. He pulled himself up and then managed to collapse in back onto the chair.

"Oh, that was fun," House's dry remark broke through the silence.

"Are you going to stay there all night?" Cameron asked softly.

"Of course. I'm used to sleeping on the couch. Women have a tendency to kick me out and make me sleep here. I'm just so damn charming."

"You're going to your bed."

"You coming with me?"

"If that's what it takes."

House smirked.

"Then we have ourselves a deal."

House stood up and looped his arm around Cameron's shoulder and he felt her stiffen in resistance to his body's weight. She straightened herself and helped him limp to his room. She grabbed his cane on the way and handed it to him, letting him have the option of walking on his own.

"No, you came back and this is your penance for leaving the first place."

House's tone was soft and firm. Cameron looked into the ice of his eyes that covered the ice of his heart. House turned away from Cameron's stare as they continued their odyssey to the bedroom.

"I have to leave before you wake whether you like it or not," Cameron informed him as they stood on the threshold of the bedroom.

"Yes, well, we all have things we must do, now don't we? I don't care what you do."

"And the bitter shell returns."

"It never left."

"Don't bullshit me. Now you're the one lying. Sit down on your bed and stay there. I'm getting my Dylan CD and leaving. _He's_ the one I came back for."

"That's seven, now. Lucky seven!"

The slap resounded in the room. House swayed slightly, held his hand to his face, and looked back at Cameron slightly astonished.

"I guess I deserved that."

"Good guess."

The silence fell between the two as each pondered their next move. In a chess match of wits, both feared they would lose this match. Neither one of them wanted to lose.

Neither one of them were sure they wanted to win, either.


	5. SelfPreservation

**Author's Note:** Short chapter to get me to the next one.

_Baby I've been here before _

_I've seen this room and I've walked this floor _

_I used to live alone before I knew you_

This time, when his alarm clock went off at six in the morning, Cameron was gone. The bed sheets next to him showed her presence and he was glad to see he was still wearing clothes. He stretched his arms out and sung his legs out of bed. He reached for the Vicodin, took three, and then grabbed his cane. He started towards the living room to make sure everything was okay after last night.

There was a dent in the wall because of the cane. He traced the lopsided indentation with his fingers and made a mental note to get the wall fixed. Walls, unlike so many other things in his life, were fixable.

He kept up his journey through the room looking at the remnants of the discovery at his door. He swiped the towel she had used off the table. With a few glances to his right and left, he made sure that he was really alone. He lived alone, yes, but paranoia ran rampant when it came to House's mind. He brought the towel to his nose and inhaled the sharp, tangy scent of Cameron's shampoo. It was dull and he could hardly smell it, but it was still the same. It was _hers_.

He looked out the window at the rising sun. He thought for a moment and went over to his CD player. He pressed the open button and the device lifted its lid. There, sitting placidly was the Bob Dylan CD. So, what Cameron had come back to take, she had actually forgot to get. He took out the CD and placed his finger through the whole, wearing the shiny disc like a ring. He spun it around with his fingers, watching as the early morning light made spinning circles on the ceiling.

After playing with the CD for a few minutes, he walked over to where the case still lay on the coffee table. He opened it up and slipped it back in its home. He would have to give it back to her today at work. Maybe he would do it in front of Chase and Foreman to make her keep her distance. Maybe he would do it in secret—just her and him. He _liked_ her. He really did. And last night was a testament to that. But he didn't understand her and that made him nervous. He apparently hadn't understood Stacy and she had burned him. Cameron, with her penchant for "charity cases", had a habit of making him uncomfortable. He didn't know what she liked about him, and he didn't know how to stop her. Yes, of course, he liked her. But he liked having control. In this situation, he felt he did not.

He had let the ball slip out of his corner last night, when he allowed his bitter façade to drop. Even in that small moment, Cameron had gained more footing. He wasn't sure he was completely over Stacy and he didn't need to hurt "puppies and kittens" Cameron.

The room, though, still held her presence. There was something decidedly feminine lingering here and he could not decide if he liked it. As he stood in the middle of his room, he knew what he had to do. Love, the silly idea, did not overcome the single most important thing that always sat on his agenda—

Self-preservation.


End file.
